A Short Love Letter to The Moon

If you teach me how to shift the shores, I will teach you the ways of the sun.

Too Late

ǵhu-tó-m

What you wanted was an image of God. Your speech was thick; spun with words marred by years of believing; a belief without conviction. Believing without ever really knowing why you had to put it all in one place. You seized devotion like it was a threadbare rag, and with it you tried to wipe me clean.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."


And so it continued; all of your careful little nuances gently stockpiled in the corners where we sat, on soil patches sullied by our footprints, behind that worried sigh you let out when I lost my way. Did you tell Him about my gritty fingers? Go on, tell Him. 

You looked at me like I was a revelation brought down to you in complete darkness. I was as curved as the Arabic scriptures you grew up singing; rhythmic liberation. We traded worldly verses in the prickly heat and you lost yourself in its familiarity. I tried to love you.

But faith isn't etched on rib cages. Divine intercessions come to me through other means - through sculptures, portraits of those long dead and gone, that first hesitant touch, melodic whispers of my qarin; through freedom. My hair exposes my follies as it cascades down my back, tumbling like wisps of weed. It bears a warning: I will leave you behind as I have done many others, in my blind chase for free will. This is why I cannot love you.

New Things.

I miss this space. As of late, I have been ambling through life with a rekindled love for Science, spectacular company and better life lenses. I've never been more sure of what I stand for; after years of contemplation, I finally let go of something that was a central aspect of my life. Which, surprisingly, has prompted a new found deep respect for the mechanics of chance, and the way chaos seems to knowingly find structure to instantly put itself in its rightful place.

All is well, save for the brief stints of sorrow that try to scrape their way through. But just like most things, it will scamper off, according to its own beat. I know that now. Honestly speaking, what else is there to say?

P.S. Caramel pudding really hits the spot.